Your Character's Name: Ursa Top Ten Most Stupid Ideas I've Ever Had
Investigating this screaming has to be on the list of “Top Ten Most Stupid Ideas I’ve Ever Had”. Anything to stop the screaming…
Cramped spaces don’t bother me. I read it in a book: claustrophobia. When I looked for someplace to hide, my choices were behind shelving or in a broken-down kiosk: three feet tall, crumbling walls, and cramped. Not good hiding material. The kiosk offered more protection, though, and now I cower under my cardboard box.
There’s garbage in here with me: crumpled, soiled paper; broken pens; and splintered wood, remains of all the shelving of ‘Boston Store’ in a down-trodden Mayfair Mall.
And rotting meat; squirrel. I try to not breathe through my nose and the foul smell settles on my tongue. I swallow thickly and pull my cardboard box down farther, huddling in a little ball. My nose comes too close to the box and I get a wave of rotten squirrel mixed with rotting fish.
One heartbeat, I count, two, three, four, too fast. I will my heart to slow down, and keep counting. Five heartbeats, six, seven, eight. I don’t hear anything. Another shrill scream – then silence. Deep, slow breath through my nose. Ignore the smells that are so concentrated under my cardboard box. Feel, smell, deduce. Calm, calm, calm. Feel sweat on palms, making them clammy. Imagine the track the drop of sweat makes, rolling over my palm, off my wrist, and onto the floor; pretend to hear it drip to the floor. Smell the squirrely, fishy, salty air. Calm, calm, calm. Seventy-six, seventy-seven, seventy-eight heartbeats, and my heart is finally slowing down.
My flashlight digs into my hipbone; it’s such a silly thing to worry about. I press my cheek against the cool tile floor and watch, transfixed, as a little bug scuttles across the floor. A little flash of light and I gasp. It flickers out. Then on again. A firefly. My mouth is open and I struggle for breath. One little firefly shouldn’t give off this much light. Go out. You’ll give away our hiding place.
Last night, I was fine with dying. I don’t want to anymore! I don’t want to die! I didn’t say goodbye to Winnie, Kid doesn’t have shoes, Virgil hasn’t found his wife, and Mercury’s still cold. I close my eyes. Don’t cry.
When it’s safe to open my eyes, I do. The little firefly is in the corner of my box. His light flutters on again and the shadows on the wall remind me of a monarch butterfly. I wonder if they think I've abandoned them. I don’t want to die.
There’s a crunch of steps outside and I’m suddenly glad I didn’t choose to hide behind the trashed shelves. Of course, this isn’t much better. I’m hoping that it’s dark enough, and the guard stoned enough, not to notice. Notice a random, cardboard box sitting amongst a pile of rubble. And the steps remind me that hiding from four stoned guards isn’t the time to be thinking about butterflies.
…
The last time I saw a butterfly was three days Before my dad died. It was a monarch – I saw it in one of my science books days Before; that’s what I call it – Before my dad died. A vibrant orange-red and black pattern on dainty wings, the most color and joy I’d seen since Mother died.
“May the wings of the butterfly kiss the sun; And find your shoulder to light on; To bring you luck, happiness, and riches; Today, tomorrow, and beyond.” It’s almost like I can still hear one of our last conversations.
“What’s that mean?”
I squeeze my eyes shut and, for an instance, it’s like he’s really there, explaining it to me again, and not my vivid imagination. His blond, unwashed hair; dark, sunken brown eyes; pale, gaunt cheeks; and thin, pale red lips. Hollow eyes – not shining with life, not shining at me. But we’re not, and, if I live, I’ll never be able to get the squirrel smell out of my outfit.
“We’re Irish, Haley.” Haley. Whenever he called me by my real name, I knew he was serious. “Not much, now, but my great-grandfather came over from Ireland, way pre-apocalypse. It’s an old Irish blessing.” I wish I had my chocolate bar with me – I could use the comfort right about now.
“Say it again. I want to remember it.”
With all the patience in the world – of a parental figure, of a guardian, of my dad – he repeated it over and over again, until I could recite it just as well as he could. He was the one who gave me the nickname ‘Ursa’. That was another serious ‘Haley’ story, about the constellations Ursa Minor and Ursa Major. If I had it my way, no one would find out my real name; I didn’t want to be called that until I was dead, and it was Mother or Dad calling me it.
May the wings of the butterfly kiss the sun…
“What the fuck is that box?”
That isn’t part of my memory. One heartbeat, I count, two, three, four – a sharp scream.
My eyes fly open and I hold my breath. The firefly chooses that moment to flicker off. Five heartbeats, I count, six, seven, eight. More footsteps, nowhere near as quiet as this guy’s are, and the firefly flicks back on.
A distraction? Or help? Nine, ten, eleven, twelve: my heart speeds up again; two stoned guys looking for me is worse than one.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Count heartbeats but, more importantly, one, two, three sets of feet walking away, all three getting quieter. I sigh in relief. With my cheek still on the cool, tile floor, I count to sixty, until my heart matches my counting, and still hear nothing nearby. I push the cardboard box off and start to fold it up. I remember stoned-guy was interested in it. If I take it with me, stoned-guy may notice it’s gone. Leave it, and I may not get it back. Take it, and stoned-guy may be more suspicious then when he originally saw it. Leave it, and grab it on my way out.
I peek over the walls of the kiosk and see four guys huddled together. I climb out of the broken kiosk and walk to the door, scream echoing in my ears. I came all this way – better stick it out: anything to stop the screaming.
Top Ten Most Stupid Ideas I've Ever Had
Investigating this screaming has to be on the list of “Top Ten Most Stupid Ideas I’ve Ever Had”. Anything to stop the screaming…
Cramped spaces don’t bother me. I read it in a book: claustrophobia. When I looked for someplace to hide, my choices were behind shelving or in a broken-down kiosk: three feet tall, crumbling walls, and cramped. Not good hiding material. The kiosk offered more protection, though, and now I cower under my cardboard box.
There’s garbage in here with me: crumpled, soiled paper; broken pens; and splintered wood, remains of all the shelving of ‘Boston Store’ in a down-trodden Mayfair Mall.
And rotting meat; squirrel. I try to not breathe through my nose and the foul smell settles on my tongue. I swallow thickly and pull my cardboard box down farther, huddling in a little ball. My nose comes too close to the box and I get a wave of rotten squirrel mixed with rotting fish.
One heartbeat, I count, two, three, four, too fast. I will my heart to slow down, and keep counting. Five heartbeats, six, seven, eight. I don’t hear anything. Another shrill scream – then silence. Deep, slow breath through my nose. Ignore the smells that are so concentrated under my cardboard box. Feel, smell, deduce. Calm, calm, calm. Feel sweat on palms, making them clammy. Imagine the track the drop of sweat makes, rolling over my palm, off my wrist, and onto the floor; pretend to hear it drip to the floor. Smell the squirrely, fishy, salty air. Calm, calm, calm. Seventy-six, seventy-seven, seventy-eight heartbeats, and my heart is finally slowing down.
My flashlight digs into my hipbone; it’s such a silly thing to worry about. I press my cheek against the cool tile floor and watch, transfixed, as a little bug scuttles across the floor. A little flash of light and I gasp. It flickers out. Then on again. A firefly. My mouth is open and I struggle for breath. One little firefly shouldn’t give off this much light. Go out. You’ll give away our hiding place.
Last night, I was fine with dying. I don’t want to anymore! I don’t want to die! I didn’t say goodbye to Winnie, Kid doesn’t have shoes, Virgil hasn’t found his wife, and Mercury’s still cold. I close my eyes. Don’t cry.
When it’s safe to open my eyes, I do. The little firefly is in the corner of my box. His light flutters on again and the shadows on the wall remind me of a monarch butterfly. I wonder if they think I've abandoned them. I don’t want to die.
There’s a crunch of steps outside and I’m suddenly glad I didn’t choose to hide behind the trashed shelves. Of course, this isn’t much better. I’m hoping that it’s dark enough, and the guard stoned enough, not to notice. Notice a random, cardboard box sitting amongst a pile of rubble. And the steps remind me that hiding from four stoned guards isn’t the time to be thinking about butterflies.
…
The last time I saw a butterfly was three days Before my dad died. It was a monarch – I saw it in one of my science books days Before; that’s what I call it – Before my dad died. A vibrant orange-red and black pattern on dainty wings, the most color and joy I’d seen since Mother died.
“May the wings of the butterfly kiss the sun; And find your shoulder to light on; To bring you luck, happiness, and riches; Today, tomorrow, and beyond.” It’s almost like I can still hear one of our last conversations.
“What’s that mean?”
I squeeze my eyes shut and, for an instance, it’s like he’s really there, explaining it to me again, and not my vivid imagination. His blond, unwashed hair; dark, sunken brown eyes; pale, gaunt cheeks; and thin, pale red lips. Hollow eyes – not shining with life, not shining at me. But we’re not, and, if I live, I’ll never be able to get the squirrel smell out of my outfit.
“We’re Irish, Haley.” Haley. Whenever he called me by my real name, I knew he was serious. “Not much, now, but my great-grandfather came over from Ireland, way pre-apocalypse. It’s an old Irish blessing.” I wish I had my chocolate bar with me – I could use the comfort right about now.
“Say it again. I want to remember it.”
With all the patience in the world – of a parental figure, of a guardian, of my dad – he repeated it over and over again, until I could recite it just as well as he could. He was the one who gave me the nickname ‘Ursa’. That was another serious ‘Haley’ story, about the constellations Ursa Minor and Ursa Major. If I had it my way, no one would find out my real name; I didn’t want to be called that until I was dead, and it was Mother or Dad calling me it.
May the wings of the butterfly kiss the sun…
“What the fuck is that box?”
That isn’t part of my memory. One heartbeat, I count, two, three, four – a sharp scream.
My eyes fly open and I hold my breath. The firefly chooses that moment to flicker off. Five heartbeats, I count, six, seven, eight.
More footsteps, nowhere near as quiet as this guy’s are, and the firefly flicks back on.
A distraction? Or help? Nine, ten, eleven, twelve: my heart speeds up again; two stoned guys looking for me is worse than one.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“This guy says he can make Rundown!”
I squeeze my eyes shut. Count heartbeats but, more importantly, one, two, three sets of feet walking away, all three getting quieter.
I sigh in relief. With my cheek still on the cool, tile floor, I count to sixty, until my heart matches my counting, and still hear nothing nearby. I push the cardboard box off and start to fold it up. I remember stoned-guy was interested in it. If I take it with me, stoned-guy may notice it’s gone. Leave it, and I may not get it back. Take it, and stoned-guy may be more suspicious then when he originally saw it. Leave it, and grab it on my way out.
I peek over the walls of the kiosk and see four guys huddled together. I climb out of the broken kiosk and walk to the door, scream echoing in my ears. I came all this way – better stick it out: anything to stop the screaming.
I open the door…